


Trigger (Master of Puppets Remix)

by a_q



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Prostitution, Remix, Surgery, Uninformed Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_q/pseuds/a_q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is running out of time, and he'll use all the time he has left to make sure his revenge won't die with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger (Master of Puppets Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unveiled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/gifts).
  * Inspired by [My Finger's on the Trigger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/493535) by [unveiled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/pseuds/unveiled). 



“This gives you six hours,” Hank said, holding his arm up to press the transdermal patch on his skin. “After that, it's all up to luck. I suggest you don't leave it to that.”

Charles smiled at his serious frown as he rubbed the patch to make the adhesive stick. Hank didn't completely support this project, but he had never outright objected or tried to stop him from doing what he had to do. Charles was thankful for that, and he had done his best to make sure that Hank would be fine after he was gone. He had packed money, fake papers and his little black book into an envelope that Hank would get later. Dying didn't worry him, it was the people he had to leave behind.   

Hank let his arm go and Charles rolled his shoulder, testing that the patch would hold. He grimaced when the chemical started to burn. 

“Give me another one.”

“Why? You can't have enough of him in six hours?” Hank asked, brushing the used medical supplies and the empty chemical vials from the table into the trash bin.

“If you had seen him naked, you wouldn't ask me that,” Charles sighed. “But no, it's not that. I need time to work and six hours won't cut it. Your drug is clever, but I still can't use my telepathy much more than one-fourth the normal. I'm going to have to repeat some things with him, and that takes time. Now give me another.”

“No, it's too dangerous. Six hours is enough.”

“Hell with danger, this is the last time I'll be with him," Charles said. "I want more time." 

“Stop being so dramatic,” Hank muttered, turning away to hide his pained expression. “You'll see him again.”

Charles said nothing. Hank had never been able to disguise his emotions from him, telepathy or no. Hank wanted to hold on to the hope, and Charles let him do it. He didn't bother with wishful thinking, when the facts were what they were. The implant inside his neck was corroding, and nothing would change that. It had to be removed before it started to leak in his bloodstream, but without the right tools the operation was next to impossible. Leaving the implant in place was a sure death sentence, and cutting it out was almost the same. A fraction of a chance for it to work, and Hank had decided to trust those odds. Charles had chosen to prepare for the worst.

"Don't be cruel, I want him! Would you deny me my dying wish?” Charles held his arm to Hank's face, and batted his eyelashes at him, the way that especially annoyed him. Hank scoffed at his teasing and slapped his arm away.

“I can't put two in your upper body, you'll get an embolism before you get to the end of the road. Drop your pants.”

“I plan to use my ass,” Charles noted, turning around and shimmying his pants down. “Put enough glue to make it last the wear?”

“Fine, spare me the details. I'll put it on your thigh,” Hank said and Charles heard him rummage through his kit, the bright snap as he broke the vial and the rustle of wrapping as he opened another packet of transdermal patches. The chemical burned his leg and Charles bit his lip to keep quiet. Hank rubbed the patch in place and slapped it one last time for good luck. "There."

Charles straightened up, pulling his pants up and reaching for his shirt. "How long do I have?"

“Ten, twelve hours. If you get a nose bleed, that's the sign your carriage has turned back to a pumpkin,” Hank said. “You better be on my table within an hour if that happens.”

“I will,” Charles said and reached to kiss him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged and blushed. “Be careful. And don't be late!”

Charles smiled and left, pushing the door closed behind him. He took the stairs, in case the rolling blackouts would kill the elevators for the night. Hank's lab and home was in the upper floor of an empty office building, abandoned when this part of the town ran out of sponsors and funding, the rich taking their money into newer, more fashionable areas. The street was empty, the crumbled asphalt filling the night air with its sweet smell. The genetically engineered saplings filled the cracks, the green leaves already at the waist level. The Council had decided to leave this area to the trees, and eventually all this would be just ruins and green silence. But right now it was still a street full of potholes where to twist your ankle. 

Charles tried to watch where he stepped while he checked from his phone where the bars would be parked tonight. He tried to plan a sensible route to hit as many places as he could. He didn't want to waste most of the time looking for Erik, when he would rather waste the time laying on top of him. It wasn't always easy to find him though.

The bars got either raided or robbed so often, that the barkeeps had started to keep their stock mobile. They ran around in large vans, parked somewhere between the buildings and opened the backdoor, starting service. Charles followed the routes from van to van, and he got a lot of offers to stay and drink for the night. Charles declined all offers and moved on to the next location. He knew his way around the back streets, but still Charles felt the time running away from him too quick.

He found Erik near the seventh van, the one locals called the Purple since the van was decorated with big glittery stripes. No one knew why, but that hardly mattered when the driver sold hard alcohol in customer's own cup. Erik sat on a rickety stool leaning his back against the rough brick wall to hold his balance, the glass jar of vodka in his hands. He looked half-asleep already, and though his posture was deceptively soft, Charles knew he could spring into motion in a split second, drunk or not.

“Something for you?” the seller called from the back of the van as he noticed him walking past.

“Nothing, thank you. I'm here for a friend.”

The seller gave him a look, and Charles picked up his thoughts. He suspected that he was a whore, and that maybe he should've hire a bouncer tonight. The thought was foggy, but more audible than anything Charles had picked up since the implant had been in place. Hank was good. Charles smiled and continued his way to Erik, stopping to his side.

“Care to buy me a drink?” he asked.

At first Erik didn't seem to notice him at all, but as Charles moved even closer, pressing against his leg, he turned slowly to look at him. It took him a second to focus, his eyes lingering on his tight shirt.

_Who the hell was this idiot?_

The thought came through bright and clear, and Charles smiled even wider.

"I spent the last of my money on this shitty drink. I can't afford you, unless you take bullets as payment," Erik muttered, his gaze drifting lower.

Charles leaned closer, sliding his hand along his shoulder. He had done this five times now, he knew what Erik liked. It had been a slow process, because his telepathy was too weak for direct control. He had to slowly slip the idea into Erik's subconscious, create the impulse to start the mission Charles needed him to finish for him. After each time he had smoothed away the memory of it. It was safer for Erik that way, but it meant that It was always a first date for him. First kiss. First fuck.

"That's fine," Charles said low, sliding his hand down his chest. "I'll take four bullets for a night."

He stared at him, trying to wrap his mind around the offer. Charles took the jar from his hand and chugged back the remnants of the drink, enjoying the burn in his throat. 

“Take me to your place,” Charles said and Erik got up without argument, pulling him under his arm. Charles settled to his side, glancing at him. “I'm Charles.”

He scoffed. “That's your working name? It's not very good.”

“It's my real name,” Charles corrected. “That's what you can call me.”

“Ridiculous, don't give me that,” he said, his voice slurring slightly. 

“Oh darling, you don't know yet what I have to give you,” Charles said quietly. "And I am sorry. I truly am." 

Charles walked with him to an old brick building, enjoying the feel of his arm around his shoulder. The building was one of the old test houses that this area was full off, build back in the day when the government has tried to fix the vagrancy problem by forcing people to move here. It had been a failed project, like everything else that government had managed to do. Most of the houses had collapsed or burned down, but some of the houses still stood, if by some miracle. Erik crashed in the remaining four-story buildings, the one with a metal door.

Erik stopped at the curb and glanced at him, smirking. He was drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn't show his skills. He waved his hand like swatting away a fly, and the heavy door jumped open, obeying his will like a dog. Erik looked at him, expecting a praise or an adoring sigh. Charles smiled. He had done the same every time.

”That's great. You're good,” he said and Erik chuckled.

“You have seen nothing yet,” he boasted. “Come on, this way.”

Charles followed after him up the stairs, though he knew perfectly well which flat was Erik's. He could've cataloged every item Erik had in there, and draw the layout out of memory. Brick walls, scraped laminate floors, large bed that was always pristinely done, the edges tugged with sharp folds. Empty counters in the kitchen, toothbrush in a glass in the bathroom. No decorations, except the few pieces of metal on the window sill, bend and folded like origami.  

Erik opened the door with a snap of his fingers, and Charles walked in, starting to undress before the door had closed behind him. He was kicking off his shoes when he spotted the one difference in the flat since the last time he was here. There was a newspaper clipping taped into the window pane, next to the folded metal rabbit. Charles recognize the headline, the corporate super-meeting in the City. Kurt Marko's name was circled with red marker.

Charles felt a shiver of anticipation. He hadn't given that suggestion to him, so Erik had started preparations from his own impulse. It was working. Whether they would get the implant out of him, if he died or not, his revenge would have a life of its own, taken to completion.

Charles pulled the shirt over his head and turned to Erik, reaching to yank his shirt open and away from his shoulders, kissing the bared skin in sudden hunger. Erik laughed in surprise, but followed when Charles pushed him on the bed. He didn't waste time, pulling his pants open and yanking them down to his knees. It didn't look like Erik needed any time to warm up either. Charles kicked his own pants off and climbed on top of him. Charles attacked his neck, biting a mark on his skin, pinning his wrist against the mattress.

"You're beautiful," Charles murmured into his ear.

Erik shivered, like his words had touched something sensitive part of him. "I'm a mercenary. A failed idealist."

“Yes,” Charles repeated, kissing him again. “Beautiful.”

He was drunk, so it didn't take much to bring him over the edge. Charles would've liked more, but Erik started snore quietly. Charles got up and went to the small bathroom to clean up. He checked the patches, made sure they held and then went back to the bed. He reached to fish his phone from the pant pocket and checked the time. Hours still until he had to leave. He set the alarm for every full hour, the last two loud enough so he couldn't ignore them. He pushed the phone on the nightstand and settled next to Erik, watching him sleep.

He smoothed his hand along Erik's arm, setting them on his sides. He did the same to his legs, undressing him properly, touching his warm, naked skin. He admired the lean muscles in his thighs, felt the shape of his knee, the bones in his ankle. He followed the veins in his arm with his fingers, brushing over the arch of the clavicle, down the trail of dark hair past his navel.

His phone bleeped to mark the hour. Charles sighed and laid down next to him, resting his head against his shoulder, pressing to his side. His heart beat steadily, his chest rising and falling. Charles enjoyed touching him for a moment longer before he reached to touch Erik's forehead. He shifted through the wisps of dreams and gently moving through his subconscious, looking for the marks he had left behind since his last visit. They were clearly visible, partly because his abilities were hobbled, partly because he wanted to make the tampering noticeable. If Erik killed the men Charles wanted him to kill, and if it would turn out so unfortunate that Erik would be caught... Quick look from any telepath working under the Order, and Erik couldn't be hold accountable to his actions. And it wouldn't matter if they traced the telepathic fingerprint back to him. He would be six feet under by then.

“I know I'm putting you into danger, but I know you can handle it,” Charles whispered, filling the emptiness in his mind, the part that searched for a worthy cause, the pure ideal he craved over anything. He filled it with his will, giving him the revenge Charles had sworn to see through so long ago. Charles couldn't finish it himself, but Erik would. Charles knew it, and trusted him with everything he had.

Charles rested next to Erik until the light started to change, the sun rising. Charles smoothed his hand through Erik's hair, tracing his eyebrows and cheekbones, kissing him softly. Erik grunted and turned, pinning him underneath him.

“Morning.”

Charles laughed, pulling him over him fully, rutting against his nakedness.

“Another round?” he whispered. 

“I haven't paid for the first one yet,” Erik muttered, kissing his neck and getting up, leaning to snatch his clothes from the floor. “Sorry, last night is bit of a blank. What did we agree?”

“You offered me bullets for payment,” Charles said, sitting up and reaching for his pants. He pulled out four bullets from his pocket, big Nato cartridges that gleamed golden in the light. He placed them on the bed, side by side. 

He nodded, looking hesitant. "Sure."

"I'm going to kill four men. Not now, perhaps not even very soon, but I will," Charles said. He picked up one of the bullets, held it in his palm. "Nathaniel Essex." A second bullet. "Kurt Marko." Another. "Cain Marko."

He turned the last bullet in his fingers, but didn't name the fourth would-be kill. The name simply refused to come out. He closed his hand around the bullet and put it back to his pocket. "That's all."

Erik nodded, his eyes unfocused as the names clicked into the places Charles had created inside his mind. As long as he had the bullets, he would feel the push to find the targets for them. Erik blinked and relaxed, returning to himself. He reached to take Charles' hand, his thumb resting on his pulse.

“You won't kill anyone if you don't know how to shoot. You need a rifle for these. I know where to get one.”

Charles felt a tickle and as he watched their joined hands, a round red drop splashed down to the white sheet.

“Your nose, let me get you tissue.” Erik let his hand go and got up, walking to the bathroom. The moment his back was turned, Charles was already up, pulling on his shoes and heading out the door, leaving the bullets behind on the rumpled sheets.

It wasn't the goodbye Charles had planned, but it had to do. He had done all he could. He rushed out to the street, the weak sunlight washing the scenery into watercolors, the saplings growing wildly over the strained concrete. Charles thought he could hear the earth cracking under the plants unstoppable force. He turned to the back streets, crossing empty slots filled with garbage, chain link fences, the familiar rubble everywhere. 

Charles walked as fast as he could, pressing his sleeve against his nose to hold back the blood and trying to see where he stepped. He was glad he had put on the black shirt this time, the fabric turning wet quickly. The headache descended like a rain of shrapnel, tearing up his brain. He leaned against the nearest wall, gasping for breath.

“Keep moving. Keep moving,” Charles said, forcing his legs to move. In his back pocket his phone bleeped to mark the hour, the first loud alarm. “You can do it. Move.”

The walk felt endless, the morning sun burning his eyes. He reached the office building, fumbled with the door and stumbled in the elevator. Most of the time it didn't work, but luck was on his side, as the light were on. He pressed the button, resting his aching head against the cool metal.

“Last hour. It's alright. You can do this.”

The elevator doors opened in the upper floor and Charles forced himself to move, going to Hank's door and pushing it open with his shoulder. The first room was empty, and he continued to the back, pushing aside the clear plastic tarp that sealed the operation room from rest of the place. Hank knelt on the tiled floor, tinkering with the main frame. The hologram screen crapped up every time he pushed his finger to it, his hands moving quick and light among the electronics, a curious contradiction to his otherwise lanky form. Charles felt a sudden wave of tenderness. He would be so alone when he was gone. 

”Got your gun cocked?” Hank asked without looking up from his work.

Charles sat down on the worn bed, trying to catch his breath. “I did what I could,” he said, his voice slurring. The pain seemed to radiate from the air around him.

Hank turned, frowning, and in one, quick move he was on his feet, grabbing his emergency kit from the table.

“I told you to get back in time!” he almost shouted, the panic coloring his voice. Charles closed his eyes, the raw emotion burning like fire to his frayed nerves.

“I'm here, aren't I,” he muttered, laying slowly down, careful not to jolt his head. It felt a size too small, the pillow digging in his aching neck.

“Press your nose with this.” Hank handed him a bunch of gauze, before snapping on latex gloves, pushing his sleeve up and slipping the needle in his vein. He taped it down and pulled the IV stand closer. “I'll give you fluids and a cocktail of pain killers, it will make you feel drowsy, alright? I need to get a better idea what's happening inside your neck before I cut.”

“Perfect,” Charles said quietly.

“Can you breathe well? I'll get you another pillow.”

Charles grabbed his arm to stop him. “Did you find Raven?”

“I'm sorry,” Hank said. “No one has heard from her, and she haven't reacted to any covert calls I've send out. But don't worry, we can think of something when you feel better.”

“I couldn't give Erik the fourth name,” Charles continued, willing him to listen. “Raven has to see it through, you have to tell her. I left... I left her a message. It's in my bag, with my will. Make sure that she gets it. Please.”

“Look, you'll be alright and you can...”

They heard the door screech in the front room, the sharp tear of metal ripping away from the old wood, then loud thud when the door fell to the floor. Hank jumped in front of him in an attempt to protect him, not realizing that it wouldn't make any difference if it was the Order's capture team or the Council's SWAT team. Charles pushed Hank's arm to get him to move so he could face who it was.

Erik stood at the door, the metal in the room humming in his presence. “You! Get away from him!”

Hank straightened up slowly and lifted his hands in the sign of surrender. He took a slow step aside. Charles pushed up to his elbows, the blood making him cough. “Erik.”

It had been a calculated risk, that too much tampering would make him momentarily focus on him, rather than the mission. The impulses would straighten themselves out eventually, when his mind had the time to work it through. Charles just didn't know if they had time to wait. He felt intense, his mind full of emotional spikes. Charles waved his hand to make Hank back further away.  

“What are you doing to him?” Erik shouted, marching closer like he was ready to rip Hank to pieces. “Answer me!”

“He needs...The implant, it's...I'm...”Hank started to explain, the thoughts tumbling around his head like marbles.

“I'm dying,” Charles said, holding the gauze back to his nose. "You don't have to see this."

“No.”

"Come here Erik." Charles held out his hand and he walked closer, the metallic hum quieting down and the tension vanishing. Hank put his hands down and turned to rummage through his medicine cabinet. Charles could tell it was his attempt to give them privacy.

“You are not dying,” Erik said, firmly, like simply saying that with enough conviction would make it true. “We have work to do. I need you, I can feel it.”

Charles leaned back down, watching him. “I know.”

“I have to start soon Charles,” Hank said. "Do you want him to stay?"

He nodded without turning his eyes from Erik.

Hank approached carefully, glancing back and forth between them and pushed the needle into the drip bag. "He's going to drift in and out. Do you have any medical training?"

"I know how to stitch up a knife wound," Erik said.

Charles laughed, the pain drifting away as the drip started to run. "Better than nothing."

"You won't die," Erik repeated.

Charles smiled and he held Erik's hand, trying to keep his eyes open as long as he could. The last hour of his life, he wanted to stay just like this.

**Author's Note:**

> The original story is part of the serie, [Love and Bullets](http://archiveofourown.org/series/24819) and a prequel to [My Love's a Revolver](http://archiveofourown.org/works/377491).


End file.
